to speak, perchance to be heard

Memories of simpler times

Translation: The moment when we hide from Mom when cleaning for Pesach.

Okay, so maybe not simpler times. I do miss the kids helping out with cleaning.

I don’t miss the kids not helping out with cleaning.

They were pretty good, really.

They made it harder, really.

It’s not the searching for chametz that’s the problem, really [yes I am really aware that I have used the word repeatedly]; it is all the peripherals. I was remembering having to safety-pin up our boys’ pants hems because I had absolutely no chance to sew them. How dare they grow right before the holidays, after all?

Oh, I miss that.

No I don’t. Not for a second. I just wonder where the time went. I miss my youth, as in, I am missing it.

I just took a break from cleaning because my nose and eyes have had enough. I was cleaning out a fan in one of the bedrooms that was so dirty that there really could have been chametz there; who knows?

After all, it’s the step before the search for chametz. We are mightily aware of the paradox of the confusion of chametz and dirt. This is what we declare (thanks, Aish).

Dust of the earth? Ashes to ashes? What we are made from? Is it all one?